


To Wine and Dine

by kiaronna



Series: YOI One-Shots [12]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Chef!Victor, Fluff, FoodCritic!Yuuri, I am not a legit french chef is anyone surprised, Identity Reveal, Insecurity, M/M, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10709772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov runs a 5-star restaurant, and Yuuri is the perfect food critic—unassuming, easily overlooked, just your everyman who can get a real evaluation of how a restaurant would treat its customers. Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure that Nikiforov has already figured him out, judging by the way he’s flinging free desserts and spoonfuls of authentic borchst at the Japanese man.





	To Wine and Dine

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I am not a chef. This will probably become apparent. I AM JUST TRYING TO HAVE FUN Y'ALL

Yuuri has been to thousands of restaurants—from glittering gold halls to hole-in-the-wall dumps that happen to serve the most savory _tapas_ for a hundred miles. But _Eros & Agape_ is a restaurant that fits nowhere into the general scheme of things—clean cut and expensive in a minimalist way, white tile floors like milky mirrors and the entirety of the place filled with an irresistible aroma from the open kitchen.

Yuuri has no idea why Celestino had chosen _him_ , of all the food critics, to come here. He’s supposed to be unassuming, the everyman, someone a restaurant will treat like an ordinary customer without being aware of the impending critique. But at _Eros & Agape_, in his lumpy sweater and secondhand black slacks, all alone, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Even more embarrassingly, he’d once done the chef equivalent of an internship here, under the sous-chef Christophe Giacommetti, before he’d given up on the idea of being a chef himself and drawn into the world of criticism. Though he doubts they remember him, because he had been completely forgettable in his anxiousness and tendency to crisp the crème brulee a bit too much, the discomfort still rises easy within him. He’s led to a table by a tall, black-haired man who looks as though he’s bursting at the seams with emotion, and his waitress approaches, fiery red hair gentled beneath the dim lights.

“Good evening, sir. I’m Mila, and I’ll be serving you tonight. Can I start you off with anything?”

“Just—champagne will be fine. Any champagne.” God knows he’ll need it.

“Of course. I’ll have our chef choose and be back with that as soon as possible, sir.”

Yuuri’s sitting there, squinting up and wondering if the chandelier is embossed with real gold, when Viktor Nikiforov emerges from the kitchen. Suddenly, the chandelier could have been crashing down atop him and Yuuri wouldn’t have noticed or cared.

Viktor Nikiforov, the owner of the five-star restaurant _Eros & Agape_, a man at the top of the world of fine cuisine. Besides being a savvy businessman and an impossibly talented head chef, he is also unfairly handsome. His blue eyes match the sprinkling of sapphires in the white tiles on the floor, and Yuuri is no longer confident that he can eat, because a swarm of butterflies emerges and takes over his entire stomach.

Viktor is laughing beatifically with an older couple, complimenting their meal choices and in general being untouchable and fey, when the blue eyes swing in Yuuri’s direction.

 _Oh no_ , Yuuri registers vaguely. He’s certain he can hear mental screaming from somewhere in the gelatinous soup that is now his brain.

“Good evening, sir,” Viktor greets, and Yuuri wants to snatch the ‘sir’ from his mouth, stuff it into the pocket of his slacks, and burst from the restaurant. “I hope you’re enjoying your first time dining with us.”

Technically, it is not Yuuri’s first time dining here. The interns were treated to one evening. But Viktor wouldn’t know this, and Yuuri wouldn’t expect him to, because the entirety of the time Yuuri had been working in the kitchens Viktor had been off sampling potential ingredients from various wineries and farms in France. When he’d finally returned, he’d swept past Yuuri, who was covered in flour with pesto smeared down the front of his smock, and never looked back. Yuuri had eventually realized that he couldn’t produce with his own hands the flavors that his discerning tongue could pick up and appreciate, and he’d left. He’d left, because he’d admired Viktor since the other man was sixteen and winning international cooking competitions that a chubby, youthful Yuuri always watched, and he hadn’t been able to be like Viktor, not yet. He’s practiced since then, but only in the dark of Minako’s kitchens at her restaurant _Benois_. This. That. He should tell Viktor all of this.

“I’m not dining yet,” Yuuri says, instead. It is probably the stupidest sentence in English that has come from his mouth, though not the stupidest thing by far. Instead of demanding that Yuuri be tossed from the restaurant, Viktor just smiles, tilts his head, and replies with a chuckle,

“Of course not. I just hope the atmosphere is to your taste.”

Yuuri looks around again. He has many tastes in many things. Celestino had hired him and trusted him because, with careful urging from Hiroko from a young age, Yuuri had developed a discerning palate, had been able to pick out spices or flavorings in dishes that no one else could. In atmosphere, though… he knows what is acceptable for a hole in the wall, and a food truck, and his own little apartment, and a five-star restaurant in Paris. _Eros & Agape_ outshines all of them.

“The look is nice,” he says, unsure. “But the smell is what makes it all come together.”

Viktor beams. “Yes? You think so? Christophe thinks I’m crazy for insisting we circulate air from one of our ovens and leave so much of our product in it.”

“It’s brilliant,” Yuuri replies, and fusses with his napkin. “Unheard of.”

What is also unheard of is the way that Viktor continues to stare at him, eyes like blue flame.

“Would you like to come back and see the kitchens, while you’re waiting for your meal?” Yuuri should really say no. If he encounters Christophe, it might become awkward. Yuuri should also say no because he’s not sure his legs will work, not if he takes the arm that Viktor is now offering.

“Yes,” Yuuri’s mouth blurts.

* * *

 

The kitchen space is bustling, but Viktor navigates it with regal air of a ruler in his kingdom. He sweeps his hand in grand gestures, smiling wider every time Yuuri gives approval of the setup or the careful actions of an employee.

“You’re familiar with this,” the silver haired man observes, eyes lighting up. He chatters eagerly as he continues to lead, grabbing Yuuri’s hand with ease.

Yuuri tries a spoonful of borscht right from the pot, has three newly created eclairs pressed into his hands. Mercifully, Christophe is occupied and doesn’t seem to notice them, and Viktor doesn’t bother the other man, just tells a young brown-haired man with a rolling pin and one earbud in that he’s leaving Christophe to man the kitchens tonight.

Yuuri assumes that, after the tour and being led back to his seat by the owner himself, that the fairytale will be over.

It is not. Suddenly, an eclectic combination of appetizers is being brought to him by a smirking Mila, who only shrugs and says, “Mr. Nikiforov insists.”

By the time Mila has brought over a second dessert for Yuuri to try, the realization hits him, boiling over from little bubbling questions.

Viktor _knows_ he’s a food critic, knows he works for Celestino, and wants to impress him. Suddenly, the sourness of his French lemon tart is too much. Of course Viktor would lead him around the kitchens; of course he’d fling free desserts and appetizers at Yuuri. Of course he’d approach, like he’s doing now, with several colorful macarons on an ornate tray while Mila mysteriously disappears.

“They’re fresh!” He chirps. He gives Yuuri a questioning look, and Yuuri nods before he can figure out what the question is. Viktor settles into the chair across from him, picks up an elaborately carved silver fork.

“Um,” says Yuuri, but then _Viktor Nikiforov_ is lifting a bite of macaron to his lips with a pleased, heart-shaped smile. Yuuri takes it. Chews, lets it melt over his tongue. He can’t help the embarrassing moan of appreciation, and at this Viktor straightens and essentially shoves another bite at his lips.

 _You don’t need to do this_ , Yuuri thinks, _to keep your five-star rating_.

“Good consistency and balance of the sweetness,” he says, because he might as well not hide his critique now, now that Viktor’s figured it out. “The blue one was a bit dry. Maybe check your oven temperature.”

“Okay,” Viktor breathes. Yuuri hopes he’s not insulted him. Yuuri can’t bake macarons like this—his hands would tremble and he’d overthink things—so he doesn’t know where the instructions are coming from. “Could I interest you in champagne?”

“I already have champagne?”

“Not of the quality you deserve,” Viktor replies. “The chefs are instructed to not choose the most expensive, if given chef’s choice. It wouldn’t be right.” Ah. Yuuri hadn’t chosen himself. Of course Viktor would be an honest businessman, as well. Viktor is gesturing then in the air, a flick of his wrist, and before Yuuri can process there’s two glasses of champagne on their table in delicate flutes, and Mila is leaning over to whisper in Viktor’s ear. “A table on the balcony just opened up. Could I take you out there?”

Yuuri supposes he wants to show the food critic the entirety of his dazzling restaurant, like he doesn’t already have eight stars out of five in Yuuri’s book. Then Viktor leads him outside, and the only stars Yuuri can think of are the ones twinkling above them in swirling navy skies, the coolness of the evening air. Viktor’s restaurant sits high, crowns the city of Paris, and lets them linger over it together, two men teetering over the edge of the world.

Before he knows it, Viktor’s engaged him in conversation—when and why did you come to Paris (love of good food), do you have a family (parents and a sister, back home in Hasetsu, Japan), do you have a dog (a poodle, and he doesn’t have a name, no, really), do you have someone at home waiting for you—

“Phichit,” Yuuri says, blinking. “He’s my best friend and roommate.”

“No,” Viktor says, a curve to his lips, “like a lover, Yuuri.”

The champagne nearly comes out Yuuri’s nose. “No,” he says, bluntly.

“Hmm,” Viktor says, and nudges his foot against Yuuri’s under the glass table. Yuuri drowns his resulting frantic confusion in champagne and three successive bites of _coq au vin_. He knows—of course he knows—that it’s a show, a use of Viktor’s good looks to convince Yuuri that dinner is of the best quality. But he doesn’t have to, is the thing. Everything Yuuri has tried has only further convinced him that _Eros & Agape_ is better than any other dining experience.

When Yuuri is completely stuffed, and they’ve covered a surprising amount of conversation topics, Viktor leans forward, puts his hand atop Yuuri’s with an odd degree of care.

“Will you come back and dine with us again?”

“I’d love to dine with you,” Yuuri admits. Viktor’s hand squeezes atop his, the brightness of his smile cloaked in the romantic heavy dark of the night. With a shivering realization, Yuuri notices that they’re on the balcony _alone_. The other tables, formerly all occupied, have been completely cleared. Yuuri’s plate is cold—he can’t remember how long they’ve sat here, talking. He got here at seven, but where the moon sits indicates a much different time. Yuuri can’t bring himself to care.

“ _Hey_ ,” a youthful voice growls from the entry to the balcony. “Are you _ever_ going to get up and leave? It’s _2am_. Some of us have school in the morning, and you making eyes at each other can’t possibly be more important than my _education_.”

“This is our busboy,” Viktor explains warmly, as though introducing a friend instead of an aggravated teenager. “Yurio. He’s also my cousin, but you’d never hear him say it. We’re trying to teach him to cook as an anger management method.”

“I did not choose to be related to you,” Yurio snaps. “Also, I don’t need anger management. I just need less of you. Anyway. Clear out, old man. Beka and I have to give a presentation early tomorrow and I’m not gonna fall asleep halfway through it and ruin his grade.”

“Of course. My apologies, Yurio.”

Yuuri stares between them. Viktor smiles, all serenity and heat, while making no movement.

“Um, I should go,” Yuuri says then.

Folding his silk napkin carefully, Viktor stands. “I’ll escort you out.”

Then they’re on the sidewalk outside, Viktor standing tall over him with hands tucked in to his pockets, smiling too gently down. “You’ll come back… tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure I’d be welcome,” Yuuri replies, peering up into the dark rooms of _Eros & Agape_, “considering I didn’t pay my bill. Do you have a card reader on your phone or something? Oh, no, I didn’t even tip Mila.”

“That’s very chivalrous of you, but I’ll take care of her.” Viktor waves one hand lazily. “Also, it’s on the house.”

Yuuri bites his lip, swallows. “You really don’t have to do that.”

In response, the other man just brushes gently at Yuuri’s shoulder, hidden beneath his light coat. “I want to. I want you to come back, and I want you to try everything I have to offer.”

Yuuri’s face is burning. As wonderful as this is, it’s too tempting—he wishes he could have Viktor for more than a night, be spoiled like this outside of an evening where he’s serving as a food critic, talk to him about everything under the sun.

“I will,” he says, finally, “but I do have to get a receipt at some point, to prove to my boss that I was here.”

Viktor stops the absentminded stroking at his shoulder, clear blue eyes landing on Yuuri’s own. “…What?”

“You know,” Yuuri prompts, “because I’m a food critic for _Le Figaro_.”

The hand at his shoulder grips, just for a moment, before Viktor steps back, sucking in air past his perfect lips.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says. If Yuuri didn’t know better, he’d say that Viktor’s pale face is coloring rather nicely, rose pink.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Yuuri babbles, looking down at his shoes, “but there’ll be more of us in the upcoming weeks. My boss likes to be very thorough. But just do what you did tonight, and provide the quality of food I know you can, and I’m sure you can charm them—“

“ _Tonight_ will not be repeating itself,” Viktor cuts him off firmly. Yuuri puzzles over this statement briefly, before a pale hand is tugging at his wrist, bringing it up and unfurling his fingers to reveal Yuuri’s palm. A folded piece of paper is promptly pressed into it. “You should… open that. After you’ve written your review. Only then.”

“Because it’s my very large bill?”

A choking laugh is his only response. Then Viktor Nikiforov is pulling back again, out of Yuuri’s life, waving at him as he disappears into the heart of France, busy as it always is, even in the dead of night. Yuuri stuffs the piece of paper in his pocket and closes his eyes, tries to commit every memory of the night to his mind—the feel of Viktor’s touch sparking on his skin, each savory bite of his meal, Viktor’s smile and flowing conversation, like he’d known Yuuri for years and wanted to know him for years more.

Phichit looks at the paper, because Yuuri’s been instructed not to, and cackles like a madman.

“Oh, Yuuri,” he says.

“Pity me all you want,” Yuuri replies, miserable.

“It’s not pity, _agneau_.” Phichit likes French, has picked it up more quickly than Yuuri from nights at bars and clubs. “I can’t _wait_ till your review is done.”

In a few weeks, it is. Celestino gives everything his stamp of approval, and Yuuri returns home to Phichit eagerly yanking him through the apartment.

“Sit down,” Phichit instructs, and hands him the little slip of paper that he’s been keeping safe.

Yuuri goes back to _Eros & Agape_ that Tuesday, the only day it’s closed. Viktor lets him into the kitchen, smile a private thing.

“Before I knew you were a food critic, I wanted to try to give you a lesson,” he admits. “You clearly knew details about food preparation, but I’d never seen you around the circles.”

Yuuri rolls his sleeves up. “I’ve tried to cook before. I’m not very good,” he admits.

Three hours later, Viktor _strongly_ disagrees, and tells him so with heated, flavorful lips.

Christophe interrupts their fifth lesson. “Hi Viktor, hi Yuuri,” he says to the floor where they’re tangled up in each other, flour in their hair from an earlier playful disagreement. “Good to see you back in our kitchens, darling, you were the best intern we had. Shame that you left us so quickly because of one failed attempt to run our kitchen. I had to give your position to _Cao Bin_ , of all people. The man can’t tell lamb and veal apart. Nothing like you, the man that perfected our recipe for the _pork aux champignons_.”

“What,” says Viktor. “ _Yuuri_ is the one responsible for my favorite dish?”

Yuuri slaps frosting covered hands to the Russian’s ears.

“I, um.”

“I’ll leave you both to it!” Christophe exclaims, pulling a pie from the fridge. “Oh, Yuuri, Phichit does like raspberries, yes?”

“Loves them?” Yuuri replies, utterly confused. “You know Phichit…?”

“Wonderful. Viktor, take him home so I can have Phichit all to myself. Goodnight, lovebirds!”

As a head chef, Viktor pays quite a bit of attention to the suggestions of his sous chef. He does take Yuuri home. Yuuri spends three hours obsessing over his kitchen gadgets, while Viktor excitedly demonstrates, before they collapse into bed together, cuddled up. Each successive lesson after that is sweeter, closer, the highlight of Yuuri’s week.

By the time their tenth lesson rolls around, they have to go back to Viktor’s apartment before they do something that violates food health codes.

When Yuuri’s lost count of how many lessons they’ve had, how many nights they’ve gone out to dinner together or walked hand in hand through Paris at night, he arrives one Tuesday with a recipe under his arm.

“Oh, you’re choosing today?” Viktor says, beaming, “let’s see.”

It’s three tiered, frosted, and something _Eros & Agape_ has never made before.

“It’s a wedding cake,” the Russian realizes, “Yuuri, it’s a _wedding_ cake.”

“I know,” Yuuri replies, fiddling nervously with the box in his pocket, “do you want to make it?”

He assumes, from the way Viktor nearly swoons onto his food preparation counters, that the answer is yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, indulging my need for every type of Viktuuri AU, and commenting if you do that! You're the best!  
> Also, if you read my other works, I am trying my hardest to get updates out. :) Soon, promise.  
> Also, I am on the [tumblr](https://kiaronna.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To Wine and Dine by kiaronna [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789212) by [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314)




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